The Great Equalizer
by lovelylittleflowerchild
Summary: It is said that death is the great equalizer of humanity.
1. A Beautiful End

Hey! So, this little series of drabbles is rather...dark. I'm a very happy, sun stained person, but for some reason I've been very intrigued by death lately. Perhaps it has something to do with having to read _The Graveyard Book_ for school; which, of course, had to become not boring in the last two chapters; life really isn't fair, is it? I don't know how many chapters this will have, so updates will vary. This fic is rated 'T' due to some choice words and some descriptions of death; it's not like _Texas Chainsaw Massacre _violent, but it's certainly more violent than my other fics.

I hope you enjoy my little macabre exploration!

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><p>Riff knows his end is drawing near; he can sense it. Over the years, he's developed a sixth sense as to when a rumble is going to take a turn for the worse. With each shake of Bernardo's silvery blade, it's just one more second of Riff's life going by. And oddly, Riff doesn't really care; in fact, in the dark depths of his mind, Riff almost welcomes the mystical black veil of death. He sees death as his only way out; Riff knows he doesn't have anything going for him like Tony does.<p>

Riff jumps off to the side, his blade knocked from his hand by Bernardo's catlike reflexes. He gazes at Bernardo, silently wishing that he'd stab him, slit his throat, cut his heart out, _anything_ to put him out of the misery of waiting around for death to beckon him. But Action, hot headed Action who also knew that a fair fight wasn't going to happen, pulls another blade from his pocket. Riff knows he has to take it; he doesn't want the Jets to remember him as a sissy who just gave up. No, if Riff was dying tonight—which Riff knows for a fact he is, he is going out with a bang. So he waves the knife around in Bernardo's face, teasing him to try anything. When really, all Riff wants is that damn PR to stab him with all he's got; Riff is so close to death, he can taste the stale air of the ancient tombs long forgotten by the living.

Then of course, Tony, fucking goody-two shoes Tony, breaks free from the grasps of Ice and Tiger, and dares to block Riff from the one thing he knows he can get. So Riff shoves Tony aside, and runs towards Bernardo; the blade clenched in his darkened fist never looked more lovely. He then feels Tony pull him away again; can't the guy take a hint? So Riff stumbles on purpose because it's the only way he's going to able to get what he wants.

And then he feels it. He feels the cold, harsh blade plunge into his soft flesh. He feels the warmth of his blood pour out onto the cement and Bernardo's knife. And he feels the sweet victory of obtaining what he wanted all along. As things begin to get fuzzy, Riff turns to Tony; he lazily hands off his blade to the closest thing he's ever had to a brother. The last thing Riff feels is the blade slip through his fingers before he is seduced by death and falls victim to her beautiful charms.


	2. Danza de la Muerte

Hello all! I was surprised that I was able to add this second drabble so quickly, considering I have homework to do and them have to hurry off to my job before going away for the rest of the weekend. Don't expect all updates to be this quick, as I do have other things going on now that school has started.

Also, I learned that listening to music by Strawberry Alarm Clock at one in the morning with nothing but the multicolored strings of Christmas lights on can make for some weird dreams.

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><p>One, two, three; one, two, three. Bernardo counts out Riff's steps like a dance; it's the only way he can keep his composer. It's the only way he can stay focused on Riff and not on the fact that who he really wants to fight is Tony, the American who dare dance with and then <em>kiss<em> his sister. So Bernardo pretends that Riff is Tony. He creates vividly morbid images in his mind of his Sharks jumping that Polack in the alley and showing him what a _real _fight is; it certainly isn't what this pansy fight is right now.

Bernardo basks in the afterglow of the thought of killing Tony. He can see his crimson blood splattered across the pavement and his defeated, crumpled body sprawled out like road kill. Bernardo smiles at these disturbing thoughts and decides to up the tempo of the sick dance that he and Riff are taking part in. So he swings his leg high in the air, knocking Riff to the ground and sends his blade flying. It's over, Bernardo thinks. But then one of Riff's always prepared friends lends him a blade; that just angers Bernardo more, causing him to bring the dance to a beat he knows that Riff is incapable of keeping up with.

Then, in a flash of quick motion, that Polack breaks free and pulls Riff aside. That's fine by Bernardo; he's going to use his blade for all it's worth and show Tony what happens when you mess with Maria. But then some unknown dance steps get thrown in. In mere seconds, Riff drunkenly stumbles forward and lands spot on the tip of Bernardo's blade. Bernardo stares down at his blade in shock; it is Riff's blood, not Tony's, that has tarnished his blade. Before Bernardo even has a chance to think, Tony throws in some steps of his own. They are unfluid and messy steps, probably from being out of practice in the art of fighting.

Bernardo feels the blade sink into him; he swears he even hears bones grinding against cold metal. Then he begins to forget his perfectly planned choreography and just thrashes to the ground. He doesn't care that he's screwed up his dance that he's practiced; perfection doesn't matter in the place he's headed to.


	3. Swan Song

Hello all! So life was pretty...interesting last week. We got wicked terrible flooding, as in I had no front yard flooding, so mi familia and I had to crash at my aunt's house for a few days. Luckily life and the universe are all back in line and as they should be.

I also wanted to apologize for not thanking Iwait4theRain in the previous chapter for reviewing chapters one; thanks buddy! Also, many thanks to ImaginaryTurtle, SILVERArrowGRIFFIN, and once again Iwait4theRain for favoriting/alerting to this drabble collection; it means so much to me. The title for this drabble comes from one of Mother Nature's many mysteries; I even included the definition for ya'll. :3

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><p><em>Swan song: noun; def: The beautiful legendary song sung only once by a swan in its lifetime, as it is dying.<em>

**~.~**

Tony rests his face against the chain link fence; he's out of breath, upset, angry and confused all at once. His Maria, his beautiful, pristine Maria can't be dead. But it's just like the city to gobble up all the good things and spit out only the ugly bones.

Then he sees it. Through the haze, he sees a flash of red and the outline of a feminine frame. Maria. She calls to him, her mouth turned into a smile and her eyes wide. At first Tony can't believe it; Maria's alive, still breathing the same air as him and the rest of the living. He calls out her name as he runs towards her; the thought of his lips touching hers has never been more lovely. Tony feels Maria's arms around him, but he then feels something else.

It's a dull pain, and soon the lights and colors around him begin to tilt, which makes Tony feel like he's spent too much time on the rides at Coney Island. He feels Maria envelope her arms around him, and as they sink to the ground Tony's legs throb as though they've been beaten with lead.

Maria holds him close, close enough that he can hear her heartbeat; Tony knows his own heartbeat is slowly fading, he can feel it. And then Maria begins to sing a song—_their_ song. Tony tries to sing a few bars, but his lips can only make the formations of the words. He listens to Maria's soft voice wishing that he could join in on their song. It would be so lovely for him to die this way: singing words of hope with the one he loves and leaving her with one last beautiful memory. But as Maria begins to go in and out of focus, Tony knows he is short on time to make that memory.

So he reaches a hand out towards her, feeling for one last time the warmth of her flesh against his and he remembers what they shared only a few hours ago. He remembers what little moments he had with Maria and smiles at how wonderful they were. Then he feels nothing at all, and Tony is left only with the contentment in knowing that not all swan songs have to be sung.


	4. I'm Dead Inside

Back for more, are we? Many hugs and wishes go to Iwait4theRain; thanks for the review amiga! I wrote this drabble while listening to "Time Flies" by Lykke Li, a song my friend once described as "music to bury bodies to". If you care to have a listen, PM me and I'll be so kind as to not make you search YouTube, but I'll gift you the MP3; I'm a very friendly person.

On a very unrelated note, I've been taking sign language classes for about a year now, as I intend to go to college to become a sign language interpereter; the best part of all these classes? I CAN SIGN PART OF "I FEEL PRETTY"! Because that's totally going to help me when I'm at college next year. In the meantime, stay sparkly! :3

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><p>Action doesn't believe in superstitions. He doesn't avoid black cats, he walks under ladders for the hell of it, and he doesn't gasp at the idea of dancing on graves. However, when he walks by the old cemetery, he looks ahead and pretends that there aren't rows upon rows of dead people to his left. He isn't going to say that the cemetery scares him; stuff like that is better left for Baby John. In fact fear isn't even part of it—Action just can't come to terms that people he personally knew call two of those dirt mounds home. Tonight however is different; tonight Action glances up at the rusted iron gates and decides it's time to show up those withered piles of bones.<p>

So he shimmies up the gate, falls hard to the ground, and takes a hasty look around. The grave markers towards the front are newer, easier to read; but if he would trek back the path, Action knows that the headstones are so worn and forgotten, they more or less just resemble rocks. As Action weaves down the path he tries not to take too much interest in the grave markers or the bunches of roses left atop the mounds of earth. He stops short in front of a grave most likely for a child. A sullen angel rests on top of the polished stone, its face looking towards the heavens. Action quickly looks away and continues down the path. He feels his heart picking up and feels the sweat seeping through his clothes. He doesn't want to say that he's scared of death; Action has seen death and knows that there is a hell of a lot of other stuff scarier than death—like the way that PR girl looked at him when she stormed out of Doc's. Action shakes this thought from his mind; Action isn't one who is keen to feeling regret. He doesn't see a need to; who gives a fuck how other people feel, right?

All of these dead people have Action thinking too much. Little does he know, he has more in common with the dead than he is willing to admit. Because maybe, just maybe, that's the root of what makes Action uneasy to cross paths with the cemetery.


	5. Heart for Sale, Slightly Used

This chapter was very hard for me to write. As I have never suffered from depression (and my thoughts go out to anyone who suffers or knows someone who suffers from it), it was hard to get into the mindset of a depressed indivdual. That's why this drabble is much smaller than the other ones. Also, thank you to Iwait4theRain; wanna go ghost hunting with me? Teehee! :3 I also don't own "Doll Parts"; that song belongs to Hole.

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><p><em>I fake it so real I am beyond fake<em>

_And someday you will ache like I ache_

_~"Doll Parts" by Hole_

**~.~**

Anita didn't know when she stopped feeling emotions. Her heart feels like paper and her limbs feel hinged to her body. But she still wears a smile; it is a painted on smile, but a smile none the less. Anita doesn't want tea and sympathy and she certainly doesn't want to talk about it. All she wants is those responsible for what happened to feel like she does. She wants them to feel fake and used and useless–because that's how those boys made her feel. In fact, she blames them for her becoming this way.

At night she lays curled up on top of her bed, the pillow pressed against her chest giving her the slightest remembrance of what it means to be loved. She whispers bitter prayers–more like curses, really–asking for those boys to feel how they made her feel before all went numb. For Anita knows someone could prick her with a hundred needles and would not feel a thing. And it's all because of them.

So she presses the pillow closer, pretending that it's him, but it's no use. Even thoughts of him can't restart her lifeless heart.


	6. Dear Imaginary Friend of Mine

I actually wasn't planning on putting this drabble up tonight. But seeing as last chapter was very short, and I had this completed ahead of time, I figured why not. Thanks goes to Iwait4theRain; I hope the universe is kind to you.

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><p><em>We'll have a bit of fun, watching everyone pass us by<em>

_You'll ask your reason why what once was yours is mine, my baby's gone_

_~"Hideaway" by Karen O_

**~.~**

Maria drags her foot across the pavement and squeezes her hands around the rusty chains of the swing. She doesn't have the same fluid movements that the children on the swings around her do. She is pushed by the breeze, which makes her resemble a corpse left hanging on the gallows. Maria can feel the chain cutting into her still-raw wounds from her previous visits. She scans the playground, looks through the hoards of children playing make believe, and finds what she's been waiting for.

He smiles at her as he pushes his way through the crowds who take no notice of his presence.

"Hey," he says while he takes a seat on the swing next to Maria. "I missed you."

"Me too. Why did you not come yesterday?"

He sort of laughs. "It was raining yesterday; we wouldn't of been able to do anything."

"Oh," Maria says. It is still hard for her to remember all the restrictions that are between the two of them. He sees the hurt in her eyes and brings a hand to her cheek; his touch is like a lofty summer breeze.

"We'll just make the most of today, yeah?"

"Yes. We will."

So he takes her hand, and they swing in sync like nothing is wrong. As he holds her hand in his, he is reminded of the warmth he once knew.

"I wish I knew why this happened," he says. "It all happened so fast, I didn't even have time to think about how I ended up like this."

"It will happen to me too someday. Someday I will be just like you; everyone will." Maria doesn't look at him as she speaks; it would be too painful to do so.

"Yeah; but when it does happen to you, there will be a reason for it."

Maria looks ahead, knowing he is right. As she swings back and forth, her hand intertwined with his as he swings in the opposite direction, Maria takes no notice of the confused parents around the perimeter. The girl on the swing is too old for imaginary friends, so she must be crazy, they think. The parents begin to pluck their children from the playground; the children see nothing wrong—they think the lonely girl on the swing is playing pretend and creating her own friends because the other kids won't play with her; that's what usually happens on the playground when you can't make real friends. So the children don't point and whisper at the girl talking to herself and holding hands with no one; the children know what it's like to be forced to play alone.

When she can finally look at him again, Maria says, "I wish things were not this way; I hate not being able to touch you. Or kiss you," she adds almost as an afterthought. He cracks a smile at her; he misses those things too and wishes that things could have been different. But they are not, and for now, all he can be to Maria is an imaginary friend.


	7. Haunted

I know. I haven't updated this in a while. But because this drabble collection is sort of based on death, I figured I had to update on this snowy Halloween weekend. Yes, you read correctly: it's snowing in October. And I'm talking sticking to the ground snow. Mother Nature you are a misunderstood woman.

Thank you to Iwait4theRain! :3

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><p>"<em>The murdered do haunt their murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts have wandered on earth. Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad! Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!" <em>_Emily Bronte__, __Wuthering Heights_

**~.~**

The first thing he lost was her; the second was his sanity. As Chino sits, back against the cement of his cell, he can see him. No one else sees him, but Chino knows that he is there. He leans against the cell wall with folded arms and tired eyes. Chino was never one who bothered much with the occult—that's just something you never mess with. But at night he hears sounds echo through the halls, sounds that can't be explained even in a prison; Chino knows that these sounds are his doing. They are his way of letting Chino know he still won; _she'll never love you now,_ his voice seems to call. _She's still mine. Never was yours, and never will be._

It's then Chino hears what sounds like gun fire. A sickening feeling begins to build in his stomach and suddenly he wants to climb under the metal framed bed and hide. But he knows he can't hide from him; he's everywhere. That's what Chino discovers is so frightening about ghosts: they can be anywhere, take any form, and can stir up all sorts of sour feelings. _You think you can hide from me? Sure, I couldn't hide from you, but now __**I **__have the advantage. Hell I could be under this bed right now and you'd never know it._ Chino clamps his hands over his ears, begging for his voice to leave his mind and inhabit another's head. _I'll never leave your mind; what you did will always be on your conscience. I may not always haunt you, but __**your**__ actions will. It's your own damn fault you feel like this._

Chino mutters something under his breath, hands still against his head. He sniffs, and his nostrils filter in the scent of metal and blood. Chino screws his eyes shut and begins to say every prayer he can remember._ Praying isn't going to help you now, _he says. Chino tries to block out his voice, but it's no use. He swears he feels his hand vibrate, like…like how they had when he fired the gun. And he swears he feels the tips of his fingers tingle and burn. It's through this he learns ghosts don't only haunt houses and graveyards—they can haunt minds as well.


	8. It's Written in the Stars

Greetings, people! Again I apologize for not updating this for a awhile. I just haven't had any inspiration for new chapters, and I hate to write half-baked work simply to get things done. Anyways, enjoy the chapter and I hope everyone has a nice turkey day!

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><p>"The stars are really just the souls of people who've died," Baby John says one night. A-Rab looks at him. A-Rab knows shit about stars and moons and whatever the else is suspended in the sky, but even he thinks Baby John's claim is crazy.<p>

"That ain't true," he says. "Stars are…stars are just made a dirt, I think."

"Oh no. Stars are, or were, people. I'm sure of it."

"Baby John whoever told you that was off their rocker."

"No they weren't, cuz Tony told me that."

"Oh," A-Rab says. It's been almost a month since Riff and Tony had made their great journey forward, but A-Rab still finds it hard to talk about them as memories and not people. "Then I'm sure he's right; Tony never was one who lied."

"See?" Baby John looks up. He'd seen a shooting star once in his life, on a winter night when the entire city lost power and all the lights went dead. Recently, he's a had a desire for the city to go black again. "So Riff an' Tony an' even Bernardo are up there, right above our heads."

A-Rab smiles at Baby John. Sure, he's a goofy kid who can't swing a punch for beans, and Baby John is often the butt of peoples' jokes, but A-Rab sure can't imagine life without him. He's the one thing in this damn city that A-Rab knows will always be the same. So A-Rab shifts his eyes upwards too, and his lips part when he sees it. He hears Baby John sigh, knowing he sees it too.

"A-Rab, did ya see that?"

"Yeah," he says, watching as a flash of light makes its way across the sky. Even A-Rab knows this light isn't from an airplane; it's from something much more complex, and perhaps, something much more personal.


	9. Weary is Life

Hey peoples! I think the next drabble is going to be the last one for this fic; can't believe I started this in August. I've started working on a nonfanfiction story and have striked a fancy for writing poetry about blurred colors, the moon, stars, flowers, and traveling. Needless to say, my fanfiction productivity is on the back burner for awhile. Anywho, hope you enjoy and because the last drabble will not be up before the holidays, I wish everyone a joyous holiday season. :3

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><p>Everyone is slowly dying Anybodys concludes. Everyday, people wake up, get older, sicker, and further from their youth. It's an upsetting thought, but Anybodys is not one who likes things sugar coated. She likes things put honestly, drenched in the vinegar of reality, as bitter as that may be. But as she sits across the street from the only old folks home in the whole city, she thinks maybe it wouldn't be that bad, dying young; Riff and Tony did after all, and they always knew what was best.<p>

Maybe it's because the old people all look so—miserable. Anybodys doesn't want to spend the last years of her life sitting in a room with her face to the wall. She sort of feels bad for the old people, because she figures if their families dumped them off here, obviously they don't care about them anymore. And that's not how she wants to go either; she's been forgotten about in life enough. Being forgotten about in death is about as bad as it gets

At least, Anybodys figures, when you die young, people remember you. They morn you, hang pictures up of you, bask in what you did in life, and _remember _you. So she sighs, and wonders if it really is easier to die as a child.


	10. Mother May I?

So, yeah...I've come out of hibernation and _finally _finished the final drabble for this story.

Below is a song by the bearded wonder, Sam Beam, who is the genius behind Iron & Wine. Seriously, the crush I have on the man is a little creepy. Anywho, hope you enjoy!

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><p><em>Mother forgive me<em>

_I sold your car for the shoes that I gave you_

_So may the sunrise bring hope _

_Where it once was forgotten_

_Sons are like birds_

_ Flying upward over the mountain_

_~"Upward Over the Mountain" by Iron & Wine_

**~.~**

Children shouldn't die young. It's a simple fact of life. Children are meant to prosper in their pursuits and see the world unfold into something new.

But sometimes fate has other ideas.

As Tony's mother sits in front of the funereal director who is making her son's final arrangements, she thinks about this unsettling role reversal. She should be the one whose name is being chiseled into a polished stone, not her son's. The skimpy outline for a hurried service rests on the director's desk. It's nothing too fancy, because she knows Tony wouldn't of wanted it that way. The director asks her some questions and she nods absent-mindedly. He mentions something about how many people she thinks will attend. Twenty, no maybe more like fifteen. She thinks of that girl her son was seeing—Maria if she recalls correctly. Yes, Maria, she thinks, should attend too.

Tony never asked much from her in life. They had a quaint mother-son relationship, Tony never being much of a problem child. Troubled, perhaps, she thinks, but never a problem. Never a problem at all.


End file.
